THE ADVENT OF THE PILLIGS
The next day the painters left for good. Hard Cider had completed his
tasks, Mike had no further need for his son Joe till haying time,
and I no longer had an excuse for putting off my departure from Bert's
and my embarkation upon the dubious seas of housekeeping with Mrs.
Pillig at the wheel and son Peter as cabin boy. So I sent word to
Mrs. Pillig to be ready to come the next morning, asked Mrs. Bert to
order for me the necessary stock of groceries from the village, and
gave myself up to the joys of transplanting. It was a cloudy day, with
rain threatening, so that Mike assured me I could not find a better
time. Miss Goodwin worked by my side, her task consisting of a careful
perusal of the seed catalogue and a planting table. What colour were
the flowers? How far apart should the plants be set? How tall did they
grow? My ignorance was as profound as hers. But perhaps that added to
the pleasure. It did to mine, at any rate. I was experimenting with the
unknown.
I've set many a seedling since and needed no table to tell me how, but
I have never recaptured quite the glee of that soft, cloudy June morning,
when my shiny new trowel transferred unknown plants to the flats on the
wheelbarrow, and a voice beside me read:
"'_Phlox Drummondi_. This is one of the finest annuals, being hardy,
easy of cultivation, and making as a summer bedding plant an effective
and brilliant display. The flowers are of long duration and of most
gorgeous and varied colours. One foot. One fourth ounce, special
mixture; contains all the finest and most brilliant colours.' Wait,
now, P--ph--phlox--my, this is like the dictionary! Here we are! Plant
twelve inches apart. My goodness, if you plant all those twelve inches
apart, you'll fill the whole farm! Where are you going to put them?"
"Why not around the sundial?" said I. "They appear to be low and of a
superlative variety of brilliant colour. And they're an old-fashioned
posy."
"Everything is superlative in a seed catalogue, I observe," she smiled.
"Peter Bell could never have written a successful catalogue, could
he? Yes, I think they'd be lovely round the sundial, with something
tall on the outside, in clumps. Something white, like the pillar, to show
them off."
We wheeled out the phlox plants and set them in the circular beds ringing
the sundial, working on boards laid down on the ground, for my grass
seed was sprouting, if rather spindly and in patches. Then we returned
for something tall and white. Alas! we went over the catalogue once,
twice, three times, but there was nothing in my seed bed which would
do! The stock was little higher than the phlox. White annual larkspur
would have served, if there had been any--but there wasn't.
"It's the last time anybody else ever picks my seeds for me!" I
declared. "Gee, I'll know a few things by next year."
"Gee, but you must fill up those sundial beds, _this_ year," said she.
"Oh, dear, I did want some tall clumps of white on the outside!"
"Well, here are asters. Asters are white, sometimes. See if these are.
Giant comet, that sounds rather exciting. Also, debutante. They ought to
be showy. Most debutantes are nowadays."
She scanned my box of empty seed envelopes. "Oh, dear, the giant comets
are mixed," she said. "But"--with a look at the catalogue--"the
debutantes are white. They grow only a foot and a half, but they are
white."
"Well, they'll have to fox trot round the dial, then," said I.
I dug them up, and we put them in clumps in the irregularities on the
outside edges of the beds, first filling the holes part full of water,
as I had seen Mike do with the cauliflower plants.
"Let me do some," she pleaded. "Here I've been reading the old
catalogue all the morning, while you've been digging in the nice dirt."
She kneeled on the board, holding a plant caressingly in her hand, and
with her naked fingers set it and firmed it in the moist earth. Then she
set a second, and a third, holding up her grimy fingers gleefully.
"Oh, you nice earth!" she finally exclaimed, digging both hands eagerly
in to the wrists.
After dinner we spaded up little beds at the foot of each pillar of the
rose arch, and put flowers in each of them, facing the house, set a
row of _Phlox Drummondi_ along the line where the grape arbour was to
be, to mark more clearly the western edge of the lawn, and finally took
a load of the remaining seedlings, of various sorts, down to the brook,
just below the orchard, where I planned some day to build a pool and
develop a lovely garden nook. Here the soil was black and rich for a
foot or more in depth, and after spading and raking out the weeds and
grasses we had four little beds, though roughly and hastily made, two
on each side of the stream, with the future pool, as it were, in the
centre. These we filled with the remaining seedlings, helter skelter,
just for a splash of colour, and watered from the brook itself.
Then we straightened our stiff backs, and scurried for shelter from the
coming rain. We reached Bert's just as the first big drops began to fall.
"Nice rain!" she cried, turning to look at it from under the porch.
"You'll give all the flowers a drink, and they'll live and be
beautiful in the garden of Twin Fires."
"Do you like flowers as well as philology, really?" I asked.
"I don't see what's to prevent my liking both," she smiled, as she
disappeared up the stairs.
The next day it was still raining. I set off alone to make ready for the
arrival of the Pilligs. I was standing on my kitchen porch talking to
Mike when they arrived. It was a memorable moment. I heard the sound
of wheels, and looked up. A wagon was approaching, driven by an old
man. Beside him, beneath a cotton umbrella, sat a thin woman in black,
with gray hair and a worried look. Behind them, on a battered trunk,
sat Peter, who was not thin, who wore no worried look, and who chewed
gum. Beneath the wagon, invisible at first, trotted a mud-bespattered
yellow pup. The wagon stopped.
"Good morning, Mr. Upton," said Mrs. Pillig. "This is me and Peter."
"Where's Buster?" said Peter.
At the word Buster, the yellow pup emerged from beneath the cart,
wagging the longest tail, in proportion to the dog, ever seen on a
canine. It would be more correct to say that the tail wagged him, for
with every excited motion his whole body was undulated to the ears,
to counterbalance that tail.
I went out and aided Mrs. Pillig to alight, and then Mike and I lifted
the trunk to the porch. I looked at the dog, which had also joined us on
the porch, where he was leaving muddy paw marks.
"Do I understand that Buster is also an arrival?" said I.
"Oh, dear me, Mr. Upton, you must excuse me," Mrs. Pillig cried
anxiously. "Mrs. John Barker's boy Leslie gave Buster to Peter a
month ago, and of course I sent him right back, but he wouldn't stay
back, and yesterday we took him away again, and this morning he just
suddenly appeared behind the wagon, and I told Peter he couldn't come,
and Peter cried, and Buster wouldn't go back, and I'll make Peter
take him away just as soon as the rain stops."
"Well, I hadn't bargained on Buster, that's a fact," said I. I
didn't like dogs; most people don't who've never had one. But he
was such a forlornly muddy mongrel pup, and so eloquent of tail, that I
spoke his name on an impulse, and put out my hand. The great tail wagged
him to the ears, and with the friendliest of undulations he was all at
once close to me, with his nose in my palm. Then he suddenly sat up on
his hind legs, dangled his front paws, looked me square in the eyes, and
barked.
That was too much for me. "Peter," said I, "you may keep Buster."
"Golly, I'd 'a' had a hard time not to," said that young person,
immediately making for the barn, with Buster at his heels.
Mrs. Pillig and I went inside. While she was inspecting the kitchen, Mike
and I carried her trunk up the back stairs.
"I hope your bed comes to-day," said I, returning. "You see, the house
is largely furnished from my two rooms at college, and there was hardly
enough to go around."
Mrs. Pillig looked into the south room. "Did you have all them books in
your two rooms at college?" she asked.
I nodded.
"They must 'a' been pretty big rooms," she said. "Books is awful
things to keep dusted."
"Which reminds me," I smiled, leading her over to my desk, at which
I pointed impressively. "Woman!" said I, in sepulchral tones, "that
desk is never to be dusted, never to be touched. Not a paper is to be
removed from it. No matter how dirty, how littered it gets, _never touch
it under pain of death!_"
She looked at me a second with her worried eyes wide open, and then a
smile came over her wan, thin face.
"I guess you be n't so terrible as you sound," she said. "But I
won't touch it. Anything else I'm not to touch?"
"Yes," I answered. "The ashes in those two fireplaces. _The ashes
there are never to be taken out_, no matter if they are piled a foot
thick, and spill all over the floor. A noble pile of ashes is a room's
best recommendation. Those are the only two orders I have. In all else,
I'm at your mercy. But on those two points you are at mine--and I have
none!"
"Well, I reckon I'll wash the kitchen windows," said Mrs. Pillig.
I was sawing up a few more sticks from the orchard, when the express man
drove up with the beds, the crockery, and so on. I called son Peter,
who responded with Buster at his heels. "Peter," said I, "you and
I'll now set up the beds. You ought to be in school, though, by the way.
Why aren't you?"
"Hed ter bring maw over here," said Peter.
"That's too bad. Aren't you sorry?"
Peter grinned at me and slowly winked. I was very stern. "Nevertheless,
you'll have a lesson," I said. "You shall tell me the capitals of all
the states while we set up your bed."
Peter and I carried the beds, springs, and mattresses upstairs, and
while we were joining the frames I began with Massachusetts and made
him tell me all the capitals he could. We got into a dispute over the
capital of Montana, Peter maintaining it was Butte, and I defending
Helena. The debate waxed warm, and suddenly Buster appeared upon the
scene, his tail following him up the stairs, to see what the trouble
was. He began to leave mud tracks all over the freshly painted floor,
so that we had to grab him up and wipe his paws with a rag. Peter held
him while I wiped, and we fell to laughing, and forgot Montana.
"You'll have to get rubbers for him," said I.
This idea amused Peter tremendously. "Gee, rubbers on a dog!" he cried.
"Buster'd eat 'em off in two seconds. Say, where's Buster goin' to
sleep?"
We had to turn aside on our way downstairs for more furniture to make
Buster a bed in a box full of excelsior in the shed. We put him in it,
and went back to the porch. Buster followed us. We took him back, and
put him in the box once more. He whacked the sides with his tail, as if
he enjoyed the game--and jumped out as soon as we turned away.
"Gee, he's too wide awake now," said Peter.
So we fell over Buster for the rest of the morning. I never saw a dog
before nor since who could so successfully get under your feet as
Buster. If I started upstairs with the frame of a pine bureau on my
back, Buster was on the third step, between my legs. If I was carrying in
a stack of plates from the barrel of crockery, Buster was wedged in
the screen door, pushing it open ahead of me, to let it snap back in
my face. When I scolded him, he undulated his silly yellow body, sprang
upon his hind legs, and licked my hands. If I tried to kick him, he
regarded it as a game, and bit my shoe lace. Peter's shoe laces, I
noted, were in shreds. But Buster disappeared after a time, and Peter
and I got the china and kitchenware all in, and Mrs. Pillig had it
washed and in the cupboards before he reappeared. He came down the
front stairs with one of my bath slippers in his mouth, and, with a
profoundly proud undulation of tail and body, laid it at my feet for me
to throw, barking loudly. We all laughed, but I took the slipper and
beat him with it, while Peter appeared on the verge of tears.
"No, Buster," I cried. "You keep out of doors. Peter, put him out."
Peter resentfully deposited the pup on the porch, and took my slipper
back upstairs. Meanwhile, Buster, after looking wistfully through the
screen door a second, pushed it open with his nose and paw and reentered,
immediately sitting up on his hind legs and gazing into my eyes with the
most human look I ever saw.
"Buster," said I, "you are the limit. Very well, stay in. I give up!"
Buster plopped down on all fours, as if he understood perfectly, and
took a bite at my shoe string. I patted his head. I had to. The pup was
irresistible.
"And what time will you have your dinner?" asked Mrs. Pillig.
"There's no meat in the house. Guess you forgot to order the butcher
to stop; but there's eggs."
"Eggs will do," said I, "and one o'clock. Bert has his at twelve,
but I want mine at one. Maybe I shall have a guest."
"A guest!" she cried. "You wouldn't be puttin' a guest on me the
first mornin'!"
"Well, it's doubtful, I'm afraid," I answered. "Perhaps I'll wait
till to-morrow night, and have three guests for supper--just Bert and
his wife and their boarder--sort of a housewarming, you know. I want you
to make a pie."
"Well, I reckon I can wait on table stylish enough for Mrs. Temple,"
said she, "and I'll make a lemon pie that'll make Bert Temple sorry he
didn't marry _me_."
"I shouldn't want you to wreck Bert's domestic happiness," said I,
"but make the pie, just the same!"
I went into the south room, and sat at my desk answering some letters,
while I waited for dinner. I could hear the rattle of dishes in the
kitchen--the first of those humble domestic sounds which we associate
with the word home. Through the house, too, and in to me, floated the
aroma of bacon and of coffee, faintly, just detectable, mingled with the
smell of earth under June rain, which drifted through an open window.
Presently I heard the front door open very softly. As I guessed that
Peter had his instructions in behaviour from his mother, I knew it must
be Miss Goodwin. My pen poised suspended over the paper. I waited for
her to enter the room, in a pleasant tingle of expectation. But she
did not enter. Several minutes passed, and I got up to investigate,
but there was no sign of her. The front door, however, stood ajar. Then
Mrs. Pillig called "Dinner!"
I walked into my dining-room, and sat down at the table, which was
covered with a new tablecloth and adorned with my new china. Beside
my plate was the familiar, old-fashioned silver I had eaten with when a
boy, and the sight of it thrilled me. Then I spied the centrepiece--a
glass vase bearing three fresh iris buds from the brookside. Here was the
secret, then, of the open door! Mrs. Pillig came in with the platter
of eggs and bacon, and she, too, spied the flowers.
[Illustration: "Well, well, you've got yourself a bookay," she said]
"Well, well, you've got yourself a bookay," she said.
"Not I," was my answer. "They just came. Mrs. Pillig, there's a
fairy lives in this house, a nice, thoughtful fairy, who does things
like this. If you ever see her, don't be frightened."
Mrs. Pillig looked at me pityingly. "I'll bring your toast and coffee
now," she said.
The coffee came in steaming, and it was good coffee, much better
than Mrs. Bert's. The eggs were good, too. But best of all was the
centrepiece. She had come in so softly, and gone so quickly, and nobody
had seen her! She had been present at my first meal in Twin Fires,
after all, and so delicately present, just in the subtle fragrance of
flowers and the warm token of thoughtfulness! My meal was a very
happy one, happier even, perhaps, than it would have been had she
sat opposite me in person. We are curious creatures, who can on
occasion extract a sweeter pleasure from our dreams of others in
loneliness than from their bodily presence. Mrs. Pillig fluttered in and
out, to see if I was faring well, and though her service was not that of
a trained waitress it sufficed to bring me dessert of some canned
peaches, buried under my own rich cream, and to remind me that my
wants were solicitously cared for. Out on the porch I could see Peter
playing with Buster and hear that ingratiating pup's yelps of canine
delight. Before me stood the purple iris blooms, with golden hearts just
opening, their slender stems rising from the clear water in the vase,
and spoke of her whose thought of me was so gracious, so delicately
expressed, so warming to my heart. The spoon I held bore my mother's
initials, reminding me of my childhood, of that other home which death
had broken up ten years before, since when I had called no place home
save my study and bedroom high above the college Yard. I thought of the
Yard--pleasantly, but without regrets. I looked through the window
as my last spoonful of dessert was eaten, and saw the sky breaking into
blue. I folded my new napkin, put it into the old silver ring which bore
the word "John" on the side, failed utterly to note the absence of a
finger-bowl, and rose from my first meal in Twin Fires.
"I have a home again," said I, aloud; "I have a home again after ten
years!"
Then I went up the road toward Bert's.